


House of Wax (Collection of Drabbles and One-Shots)

by orphan_account



Category: House of Wax (2005)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble Collection, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Femdom (if you squint), Horror, Not Beta Read, One Shot Collection, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, slashers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-01-30 08:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21424867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin. Collection of random one-off stories and slices of life living in Ambrose with the SInclairs that follow a general timeline. Contains canon-typical violence and murder boys that are known, on occasion, to stab. Main ship focuses around Vincent/Reader.
Relationships: Sinclair Family, Vincent Sinclair/Original Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 79





	1. 1: Bo, Master Ear Piercer

“I’ve changed my mind, let me go.” You ground out, struggling to get away from Lester’s iron grip on your shoulders. 

“Now now, little missy, I ain’t just gonna let you chicken out like that.” Bo replied, blocking the doorway with his body. In one hand he brandished a sewing needle like a weapon, and in another one he held a fresh-cut lemon wedge. “This is gonna be a breeze.”

“If it gets infected I’m gonna kill you.” You replied through your teeth. Your grip tightened around Vincent’s hand. 

Bo just laughed in the smug and honeyed way he always did, pinching your earlobe between two fingers. You side-eyed Vincent as best you could without moving your head; he gave you a sympathetic look from his hunched position beside you, using his free hand to pat yours over the knuckles. 

“Now whatever you do, don’t move.” Bo muttered in concentration, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth. You felt the needle align with the drawn-on marker dot on your ear. With a flash of aching pain it was through, and you hissed through grimaced lips as it retracted. 

Bo did both of your ears, carefully slipping in the steel studs Lester had so sweetly bought for you at the cashier of a local retail outside of town. Vincent was quick to fumble with the bottle of rubbing alcohol and start dabbing your ears with the flighty sort of tenderness he was so good at. You pat his forearm affectionately in thanks. 

“See, what I tell you?” Bo said with a grin, taunting you with the long needle. “All that fuss was over nothin’.” 

You punched him softly on the shoulder. He laughed even harder. 


	2. 2: Raining on Laundry Day

Summers in Louisiana were stifling. They reached the high eighties and low nineties most days. That would be fine if it wasn’t for the overwhelmingly humid air and occasional thunderstorm; some days the small one-road town of Ambrose felt less like a town and more like a movie set in the tropics. 

You were just finishing up dusting an old bookshelf in the living room when you heard the first few drops of rain beginning to hit the roof upstairs. There was something calming about summer showers; they were never was as aggressive as the ones in the chilly winter. You leaned against the nearby windowsill and watched the scattered drops fall onto the town below. 

A low rumble of thunder rumbled across the valley, and with it came a muffled thump from upstairs. You ignored it. Bo was home napping, after spending all night out the night before doing… whatever it was that Bo did.

Bo came running down the steep staircase, nearly tripping as he yanked on his shirt. 

“ _ You _ seem in a hurry. Where you off to?” You asked, bemused and unworried. 

“Today was fuckin’  _ laundry day _ .” Bo said angrily before slamming open the door to the backyard. 

Your brow furrowed.  _ Laundry day? But that would mean… oh no _ . All your clothes,  _ everybody’s  _ clothes, were hanging up on the drying lines outside. 

In the rain. 

You gasped and started pulling off your dusting rubber gloves as fast as you could. You needed to get out there and help bring all the clothes in before they were completely wrecked. Just at that moment Lester and Vincent pulled in outside in the truck, holding old newspapers over their heads as they ran to the front door. 

You got the door for them. “I need you both to help me in the backyard ASAP, boys.” You said before Lester could even open his mouth to say thank you. 

Sure enough, when you all got to the yard, Bo was already there stomping from line to line of laundry that was flapping in the rainy summer breeze, grumbling under his breath. Vincent ran forward to help him, ever dedicated to making his brother’s life easier. Together you and Lester tackled the line in the front, yanking down slightly-damp articles of clothing. Lester took a flannel shirt straight to the face with a gust of particularly strong wind, making him splutter. 

Soon the whole Sinclair family had a bucket brigade system down pat, running back and forth between the house and the backyard to throw laundry onto the couch. 

After a few minutes it was done. No sooner had Bo dropped the last pair of work jeans onto the sofa, out of breath, did a particularly loud clap of thunder roll through the town. It brought a summer monsoon with it. Vincent watched the heavy rain fall from the backyard screen door, slowly unsticking long threads of soaking black hair from his mask. You tutted and smiled, pulling locks of it away from his eye. 

“Well. That wasn’t too terrible. Go team.” Bo said, cracking open a beer from the fridge. 

You only turned to look at him when Lester hid a snort of laughter in his hand, trying and failing to hide a wicked grin. You immediately followed suit, desperately trying to keep a smile off of your lips. 

Laying right on top of Bo’s hat, just out of his sightlines, was a pair of dripping wet tighty whities. 

“What.” He said sourly at your expression. “ _ What _ .” He subconsciously followed your gaze with a free hand, his fingers making contact with the garment. He blanched and ripped it off of his head, and Lester broke into a howl of laughter. Bo grimaced and threw his brother’s underwear at his face, which he artfully ducked. 

“Y’all,” Bo said grouchily, pointing at Lester, Vincent, and you, “Are a bunch of children. I’m goin’ back to bed.” With that he stalked back upstairs, draining his beer can. 

“Well I thought it was funny. Didn’t y’all think it was funny? It was funny!” Lester defended himself with glee. You pinched the bridge of your nose, huffing and smiling unwillingly. Vincent turned around, betraying his opinion of the situation; he was hiding a smile that was already hidden by the mask. 

“Well, I mean. That’s  _ one  _ way to dry laundry.” You said quietly. 

Lester exploded into another bout of laughter.


	3. 3: Midnight Drink (Vincent/Reader)

It was late, and dark, and you were thirsty. The digital clock by your sofa-turned-spare-bed read out “3:02” in blocky red letters. You groaned, rubbing your eyes; you had literally woken up because you were parched. 

As you crept across the ancient and creaky floor you tried to remember the dream you were having. You were in a desert, searching for a glass of water. That much is easy to remember. You found one sitting on a rock underneath a palm tree, in the middle of the shifting sands. Eagerly you grabbed it and drank it as fast as you could. But you started to choke, to grab at your throat; the water wasn’t water at all. It was boiling hot wax. 

You shivered at the memories of the tightness in your throat, rounding the corner of the kitchen. You could barely seen anything save for the moonlight coming in through the window; not even the normally sharp edges of the kitchen table were visible. With a yawn you went fumbling for the light switch, being extra careful not to make any noise to wake the lighter sleepers of the household. 

You were alone in the kitchen, so you didn’t expect a pale oval of a face to materialize in above you, inches from your face. 

You screamed at the top of your lungs. There was the shattering of a glass. You brought your fist up as hard as you could on reactionary instinct and felt it immediately connect with someone’s jaw. There was a muffled grunt of pain. You scrambled for the light switch just as there was a shout upstairs; the brothers were up and coming to the rescue. 

The light flicked on. Vincent was in front of the fridge holding his face, standing in the middle of a puddle of broken glass and orange juice. 

“Vincent,  _ jesus christ _ -” You breathed, putting your hands on your knees and trying to slow your racing heart. It was just Vincent. Just your Vince. 

Bo appeared in the doorway a second later in his boxers, holding a baseball bat and looking just about ready to bash someone’s head in. “What the  _ hell  _ is going on in my house?” He said roughly, looking between you and his twin brother. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. God.” You rubbed a hand down your face. “I was going to get some water, and it was dark, and I didn’t know Vince was home…are you alright?” You asked regretfully, extending a hand helplessly in Vincent’s direction. He nodded, but continued to massage his jaw reproachfully, looking hunched and uncomfortable. 

Bo sighed, rubbing his brow. He turned and headed back upstairs just as his younger brother was heading down them, shushing him and pushing him back up the steps. 

That left you and Vincent alone in the kitchen. He was already kneeling in the orange juice, picking up large fragments of glass with dirty fingers. “Ah, no, let me get that.” You interjected, squatting down and shooing his hands away. “This is on me. I’ll clean it up.”

Vincent headed back to the fridge, opening it up and getting out the plastic jug of juice. It was only now that you realized there was a box of cereal and an apple out on the counter as well. 

“What are you doing up right now, anyway?” You asked, mopping up the juice with a dirty dishrag. “It’s really late. Or early.” 

“Got back.” Vincent muttered in that gravelly, strained voice of his. “Hungry.” He shook some cereal into a chipped bowl and got out another glass. 

You sat back on your heels. “You just got home now? You were working the whole night?” 

Vincent hesitated for a second before nodding his head once.

You bit the inside of your cheek and filled your own glass with water. “You work too late. It can’t be healthy for you to stay up like that; and I imagine it gets lonely down there.” 

You had cornered Vincent between the counter and yourself. He awkwardly held his cereal and apple under one arm, and his drink in the other. You knew he was a slippery, avoidant sort of man; more than anything right now he probably wanted to slink back into that tunnel of his and get back to his workshop. “No.” He murmured, avoiding your gaze and lowering his head even more. You had been dancing around each other like this for weeks, now. “Got the dog.”

“Well.” You made up your mind, drained your glass, and refilled it. “If you’re going back to your studio, I’m coming with you. I’ll find something to do while I’m down there.” 

“You don’t have to.” Vincent’s one blue eye stared out at you, contemplative.

“Vince.” You replied, and closed a foot of distance between you both. “I don’t want you to be lonely.” 

You were both locked in a silent moment, staring at one another in a singular crystalized point in time. You’d never stood this close together, even when you were alone. You could see every carefully punched hair in his eyebrows of his mask.

The moment broke when Vincent looked away, a little overwhelmed. “Okay. C’mon.” He said quietly, and trundled out of the kitchen holding his dinner. 

You smiled to yourself, grabbed an extra blanket from the couch, and followed him out the door.


	4. 4: Valentine's Day (Vincent/Reader)

It was February 13th, and you needed to make a move. Even if it was classic, cliche, and overdone, you had been thinking about Vincent for months. His mannerisms, his hair, his hands… but it was hard to be romantic in tiny house full of close-knit (and seldom showering) family members. Even if it wouldn’t amount to much, you still wanted to do something nice for the reclusive artist; even if he just took it as a friendly gesture, in the end. 

“Lester.” You slapped your hands on the kitchen table, surprising the man who was mid-breakfast. “I need you to do me a favor.”

Lester grinned through a mouthful of soggy cereal and milk, adjusting his cap. “Shoot, darlin’.” 

“I need you to take me with you on your work route today.” 

The younger Sinclair brother’s grin turned suspicious. “Don’t s’pose there’s any particular reason why?” 

You looked to the left and to the right, making sure the house was well and truly empty. “I’ll tell you, but you can’t tell a damned soul, _ especially _not Bo, alright? He might get the wrong idea.” 

“Lay it on me.” 

“I.” You rapped your knuckles against the hard wood table, struggling to actually say it out loud. “I’m putting together a bouquet for Valentine’s Day. I _ know _ -” You held up a hand to shush Lester, whose mouth was already open, “it’s stupid. And tacky. But I wanna do _ something, _and I don’t exactly have 50 dollars to drop on some fancy froufrou assembly of roses. I gotta find stuff to put it together myself, and there’s nothing around Ambrose. Will you help a girl out? Pretty please?” 

Lester scratched his head and sighed. With a grunt he grabbed his keys from the table. “Fine. But you’re helpin’ with the cleanup today. _ And _you don’t get to complain about it.” 

You put your hands together and mocked a bow at Lester, who waved you off with a dismissive huff of laughter as you both headed for the door. 

* * *

A good portion of your day was spent on the road. Together you drove up and down the interstate and into the fringes of nearby towns, working on radio reports from the Louisiana State dispatch. Every time Lester pulled the truck over to scrape a splattered raccoon off the road or throw a deer carcass onto the loading bed, you wandered off a few hundred feet, looking for materials for a decent bouquet. In most areas you found grasses and ferns, but they were sadly lacking in any sort of flower. It was February, after all. 

Lester meant what he said about participation. “How’s it comin’?” He said, his head poked out of the driver’s window and watching you with sick glee. 

You looked at him miserably from the side of the road; you were currently prying a sun-dried opossum off of the asphalt. “I’m fine.” You ground out, giving the shovel a particularly hard shove. The opossum’s corpse made a sticky sort of burbling sound and your stomach heaved. “On second thought, I might yartz.” 

Lester cackled. 

It was eight o’clock at night when you both finally got home. You held a fairly weak assembly of vegetation in your arms; it was mostly grasses and leaves. In the more suburban areas of the county you had been able to sneak over to public flower beds and pinch a few snowdrops and hyacinths, but an old woman saw you wrestling to pick a crocus from a house’s front garden and damn near bludgeoned you over the head with her cane, calling you a ‘dirty thief’. Lester wasn’t going to let _ that _one go any time soon. 

“Thanks for the ride, Les.” You said, shucking off your boots at the door and heading up the stairs with a pair of scissors and a roll of twine. You had a bouquet to make.

“Yer welcome, missy. But I don’t think you gotta worry about makin’ him something special.” Lester commented loudly as you walked away. 

You rolled your eyes. Of course, he was Vincent’s brother. He wouldn’t want you to be making any romantic moves towards him. “Your input is appreciated.”

“No, ‘m serious. It’s really not necessary.” Lester said with more emphasis this time. 

You closed the door upstairs, pretending not to hear him and laying out your collection on a table. Getting to work, you grouped the filler together; little green stems full of unopened buds and leafy green foliage. You set your flower centerpieces in odd numbers; three large spots of color in the center of the bouquet. They were the only ‘real’ flowers you could find. Finally, after a half-hour of fussing over it you braided some twine and bound all the stems together, tying a big bow in the center. With a grimace you held the bouquet out under the light. 

It looked like shit. 

With a disappointed sigh you shoved the rapidly-wilting assortment into a grimy vase of water. Whatever. You tried. It almost looked so bad that you contemplated just not giving it to Vincent after all… but there was not a chance in hell you were going to leave Vincent empty-handed. _ Especially _after all the roadkill wrangling you did today. 

The bouquet went in the middle of the kitchen table at around 11:50 at night, a slip of paper marked with the note “For V” tucked into the flowers. Vincent would probably get home at hell-o-clock in the morning again today; hopefully he would find his present when making his breakfast dinner. 

You said goodnight to Bo and Lester, and laid in your bed in the dark trying not to think about just _ how damn embarrassing _this could work out to be. 

* * *

You got up at 9 AM. Really you’d woken up at eight, but you didn't want to head downstairs on the off-chance that Vincent was still hanging around. What if you went down there and he hadn’t even noticed? What if he _ did _ notice and shrugged it off, trying not to offend you but rebuffing your romantic gesture? That was _ not _something you could handle before coffee. 

Eventually going down to the kitchen was unavoidable, and you dressed and slunk down. Lester, like always, was eating breakfast and waiting to leave at 11 am. He grunted a greeting, not even looking up from his newspaper. 

You stopped in the doorway. The bouquet was gone. In its place was a single, incredibly carved wax rose, pale golden in hue. 

You blanked out, pointed it at it dumbly. “I… is that for… is that mine?” 

Lester set down the paper with a snap. “I told you ya didn’ have to go through all that fuss of makin’ your own bouquet, didn’t I? Vincent’s had his nose stuck in one of them old-timey romance guidebooks for a week now. Damn near talked Bo’s ear off about it, till he threatened to bludgeon him with the damn thing.”

The rose was cool to the touch; if you held it close you could see the fine lines of a chisel that had been run across the surface of the leaves. You brought it to your nose: it was beeswax, fragrant and sweet. “I…” You said intelligently. “He made this… for me?” 

“Sure as hell didn’t make it for one of us.” Bo’s voice made you jump in surprise; he materialized right beside you and set a glass down in the sink. “Mazel tov. Now get the hell out of here. I swear to God, if I hear one more ooey-gooey sentiment this morning…” he devolved into grumbles and mutterings as he rooted around in one of the cabinets. 

You smiled to yourself and held the rose up to your nose once more. Delicate and sweet. Just like your Vincent. 


	5. 5: Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits

Singing is fun. It was one of those idle pleasures you never really thought too much about: it was a hobby your parents encouraged every since you could walk. Some people had violins, others had flutes: you had a (very slightly) above-average voice. 

Your hair was getting a bit longer than you liked it, so you located a pair of long shears in the absolute mess that was the house storage and retreated up to the shared bathroom on the second floor (which, yes, was  _ just  _ as filthy as it sounded). You hopped up onto the countertop and shoved a mess of empty floss containers and discarded old shaving razors out of the way.  _ At least I know they’re shaving; that means they had to shower at some point _ , you thought to yourself. With a corner of your shirt you rubbed the spotty mirror, combed through your hair with your pocket comb a few times, and began. 

You took your sweet, sweet time. This was  _ not  _ something you could afford to mess up; measure twice and cut once, your father always said. Humming some tune under your breath you carefully lined up the edges of your hair, and then  _ snip _ . Bits of feathery hair fell onto your criss-crossed legs.  _ One down, several hundred more refinements to go _ . 

As time passed your under-your-breath humming moved from a low murmur, to a breathy song, to a full-out belted rendition of some old 80s love song you couldn’t get out of your head. It was dated music, but damn if it wasn’t catchy.  _ I guess it had to be popular for a reason _ . The notes were long and slow, honeyed and romantic just like the lyrics that mused and pined over unattainable love. Admittedly, the bathroom made an excellent echo chamber. You assumed you weren’t bothering anyone. Last time you made too much noise, Bo just hit the ceiling below the room you were in with a broom handle until you stopped; he was eloquent like that. 

You crooned out another line to your reflection, holding the note and snipping another chunk of hair off near your left shoulder, brushing it flat to make sure it was even. With a tilt of your jaw, you turned from side to side; a haircut was no good if it only looked nice from one angle. 

When your head moved out of the way you could see the door that you left ajar. Between it’s edges was the unmistakable mask of Vincent, hovering outside. Listening to you sing. As soon as you whipped your head around he was gone. Muffled and nearly-silent footsteps retreated down the hall. 

You poked your head outside of the bathroom. “Vincent?” You called. 

Silence greeted you. The hallway was empty. Dust motes swirled in the shaft of sunlight from the nearby frosted window. 

You shrugged and went back inside nonchalantly. Secretly you were more than a bit pleased; did Vincent come all the way down the hall just to hear you sing? The fact alone was enough to make you feel bad that you spooked him like that. 

After a moment you hopped back up on the counter, picked up your scissors, and picked a new song to sing. But the door stayed wide open this time. 


	6. 6: One Got Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning in this chapter for graphic depictions of violence!

“Oh, oh thank god. You have to help me. Please!” 

The woman’s voice froze you in the middle of Vincent’s studio. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This  _ wasn’t  _ how it was supposed to go. No one was supposed to come up to  _ you _ . 

Only seconds ago Bo had rung the landline in Vincent’s basement. He was breathing hard and practically spitting into the phone; two punks had rolled into town with spraypaint and an intention to cause some trouble. But they had seen the wax figurines in the church too quickly for Bo to wrangle them; he took down the guy, but the young woman was running loose. She was armed. He found that out the hard way. 

Normally when this sort of thing happened you slunk back to the house and hid under a blanket or two until it was all over.  _ A necessary evil _ , you would tell yourself. It felt a lot different standing in front of the young bruised woman who had just come barreling in here with wide eyes, messy hair, and a smear of blood on her cheek. 

“There are these guys,” She gasped as she took a step forward, wildly gesturing with the hunting knife clenched in her hand, “They’re- they’re  _ brothers _ , and they- oh god, they killed Mikey…” She paused for a moment to sob, tears leaving tracks down her dirty cheeks. 

You stood a few feet away from her, unable to get a word out of your suddenly-locked jaw. You still sported your work apron: Bo’s call had interrupted you and Vincent in the middle of some paraffin reheating and he left you to shut down the furnaces, racing to help his brother.  _ Really wish he was here right now _ . 

“Do you have a phone...or…” The woman’s rapid chattering was slowing, her wide sweeps of the room narrowing to you. “Wait. Wait.” She sniffled, eyes growing fearful. “They-  _ everybody  _ in this town is made of  _ fucking wax  _ except for those guys… and you’re…” 

You swallowed hard, shoulders tensing. 

The woman brandished the knife. “Oh my god, you’re one of them!” She swung it out towards you in an arc with a manic cry. You jumped backwards, nearly toppling an enormous vat of slowly-liquefying wax. She took another swing, forcing you back even further. She was backing you into a corner; her vicious attempts to literally kill you were shockingly violent.  _ Jesus. In this situation, I'm the bad guy,  _ you thought blankly.

With a hoarse yell Vincent emerged from the other side of the room, grabbing a lumpy candle from his desk and  _ lobbing  _ it with terrifying precision. The woman screeched and whipped around, dodging the candle that smashed against the wall an inch from her head. She made a mad dash for the side door, but Vincent beat her to it. He grabbed the back of her shirt with an aggressive tug that reminded you of a pitbull’s jaws closing around its victim. The woman thrashed like a fish out of water. In one sickening second her wild movements turned around; she sank the blade of the knife into the meat of Vincent’s forearm through his sweater. 

He let go with a grunt of pain. Blood was already darkening the material, glistening sickeningly in the wool. 

_ Oh my god, she stabbed Vincent _ . 

Suddenly what would happen if the woman escaped became transparently clear. She would get into her car, sobbing and sniffling, and head straight for the police station in Baton Rouge. Cops would swarm this place, destroying it from the ground up, ripping it apart. Even if you and the Sinclairs got out in Lester’s truck, they’ve have a bolo out on it. You’de be caught. More importantly,  _ Vincent  _ would be caught. And you would never see his tender gaze, or hear his endearingly rough laugh, ever again. 

What happened next felt like pure instict. Blood roared in your ears, the urge to protect, to  _ defend  _ overriding all common sense. You leapt over the table that separated you and the woman. She saw you lunge forward with wide eyes and hurried backwards towards the stairwell, tripping on a wax-slick stair with a cry of terror. Somehow you got her, got on top of her. Her nails ripped into your skin but you ignored it, seeing nothing but the bright smear of blood on her cheek.  _ Was that her blood, or Bo’s? How fucking badly did she hurt him? Hurt Vincent _ ?

You were smashing her head against the concrete again and again, face contorted in a tight grimace of rage. You only stopped when she stopped clawing at you with those sharp nails: when the noise of bone hitting stone was more fleshy than hard. 

Breath came to you unevenly as you stumbled to your feet, feeling like you had just run a marathon.  _ Why are my hands wet _ ? You thought distantly. They were dark and slick with blood in the candle light.  _ Vince _ . You stumbled back around the corner, wiping your sweaty hair away from your face. 

Vincent was leaning against the wall, the knife free from his muscle and discarded on the floor. He had an iron grip clamped around his bicep, but blood still welled between his fingers. 

“Hey. Hey. I’m here. I’m here.” You said breathlessly, jogging over to be beside him. “How bad is it? Are you okay? Can you walk home?” You put a hand on his lower back, drawing close.

Vincent nodded violently as you fished a rag from your pants pocket and tied it tightly around his upper arm. It was an alarming amount of blood; she must have nicked an artery. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Bo’s better with a needle than I’ll ever be.” Wordlessly you held his uninjured arm tightly as you headed for the back exit; partly because he was a bit wobbly from blood loss, partly because the thought that the girl could have killed him then and there terrified you. 

You were already pretty deep into the mineshaft-esque tunnels under the ground when Vincent spoke. “Thank you.” He said quietly. His mutilated voice sounded small and tired. 

You looked up at the man’s waxen mask, willing away the images of the woman’s shattered skull and the bile that rose in your throat with them. His one blue eye looked into yours and everything else drained away. You realized you would bash one hundred angry women to death to save him. “You’re, uh. Welcome.” You replied. 

Vincent’s arm you were holding shifted a bit. A big, warm hand, skin smooth with all the wax it had been under, wrapped around the back of yours. You held Vincent’s fingers tight as you both marched off into the low light of the electric bulbs overhead. 


	7. 7: Impromptu Pastry Chefs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (puckers up and runs at Vincent as fast as I physically can)

“You guys have seriously never made bread before? But it’s so easy!” You complained standing up from the dining table. The Sinclairs had all gathered around for the evening, and half-drunk beer bottles littered the table and nearby countertop. Everyone had a drink in their hand- yourself included- save for Vincent. He was disinclined to drink or eat in front of anybody, even his blood family. 

Bo waved his hand and took another long drink, crossing his ankles from his slouched seat. “That’s… cooking shit. We don’t really do that. We get whatever we need from the Stop n’ Gas.” 

You gasped openly. “You’re telling me that the food  _ I've  _ been eating this whole time has been from the half-shelf of actual food Stop n’ Gas sells?”

“They got fine stuff! Bread, potato chips, canned beans.” Lester pointed out. 

“Dear god,  _ how  _ am I still alive?” You muttered to yourself. With a resigned sigh you slapped your hands together, pointing them at Bo. You were a little liquored up; an activity sounded fun. “Alright. I think all our diets need a major overhaul, but we can start simple. Let’s make some bread. You got any flour and milk?” 

“Mmm.” Bo pointed with his beer towards the dingy pantry. You nodded and started rooting through old ingredients and jars of spices that had clearly seen better days. There was a bag of all-purpose flour that was only a month out of date: score! You refined your hunt for salt, vinegar, and rosemary. 

“Vinny, can you get the milk out for me?” You called from the back of the food storage. 

“ _ Oh Vinny, can you get the milk for me? _ ” Lester said in a simpering tone, mocking the nickname. You flushed; the term of endearment just sort of slipped out. Through the crack in the pantry door you watch Bo reach across the table and give Lester a slap to the back of the head as Vincent slunk over to the fridge. 

You shooed Bo’s and Lester’s arms (and kicked up feet) off the kitchen table, sweeping the surface clean with your forearm and depositing the ingredients down on it. “Just put the milk down here.” You said to Vincent, tapping the table. “Okay. Bowls, bowls, bowls.” You ran to the cupboards, looking in creaky wooden door after creaky wooden door. 

Something on the table rattled as it was set down. You turned to see Vincent had already magically produced several large bowls that would be perfect for kneading the dough. With a hum (and draining the rest of your second beer) you set the (fairly uncleaned and dirty) oven to 400 before waltzing back to the table. 

“Audience participation time!” You crowed.

Bo tipped his hat. “And that would be my cue to leave. Gnite everybody.” 

Lester scrambled to follow him. “Me too. I, uh, have to be up early for work tomorrow.” 

You pouted your lower lip and narrowed your eyes. “Tomorrow’s Sunday, you filthy liar. Fine. Go. We can make delicious home-made food without your help!” My complaints followed the two up the stairs until they disappeared. “Are you going to leave, too?” You asked Vincent, resting against the edge of the table. He shook his head and tucked some hair behind his ears, and you beamed in reply. 

Together the two of you measured out ingredients for a few batches of bread; you had the exact measurements burned into your brain after making it with your mother during every holiday season. Vincent sifted flour into the bowl with careful, measured taps while you mixed the milk and vinegar together. You demonstrated how to measure enough rosemary for the whole batch in pinches and how they piled up in the palm of your hand. Vincent watched intently. He held the bowl tightly while you mixed the wet and dry ingredients, the mixture hissing and fizzing. 

“Now we gotta act fast, or the bread won’t be as leavened as we want it to be.” You explained, rolling up your sleeves. “If you wash your hands, you can help me make it into shapes before we cook it.” 

Vincent was at the sink faster than you could finish you sentence, diligently cleaning under his nails with a bar of soap, rolling up the sleeves of his own sweater. He slunk back over, shaking the water from his clean hands.  _ Hello, muscles,  _ you thought distantly. Vincent always kept himself so covered up, so shadowed; it was easy to miss how strong and toned he was underneath it all. You supposed he  _ was  _ Bo’s twin, so of course they shared nearly identical body types. 

Vincent came and stood by your side so you turned your gaze to flouring the surface of the table instead. “Alright.” You gestured for him to coat his hands as well, “Let’s make some bread magic.” 

There was enough dough for several loaves so you had your work cut out for you. Vincent was treating it like some sort of art sprint; he wasted no time. You watched in a sort of slow awe as he stretched and manipulated long tubes of dough with a laser-sharp focus and intensity. He braided, forked, and pounded out four beautiful and intricate loafs of bread. You were too distracted by a particular vein on the back of his broad hands to make anything other than a crescent loaf. Vincent seemed to notice this, and looked up at you questioningly. 

You gestured helplessly at his celtic-knotted bread. “I can’t… how am I supposed to compete with that? I can’t even braid.” 

Vincent’s eye crinkled in a little smile under his mask. He took another piece of dough and separated it into three strands, looking at you pointedly. “I’ll teach you.” He said gruffly; the first words you had heard from him all day. 

The man tried his absolute best to show you the braiding pattern, but whether it was the alcohol or the one-on-one nature of the demonstration that was flustering you, you didn’t know. But somehow you managed to yet again put the wrong strand on top, throwing off the whole braid. Vincent let out a patient exhale, stepped right behind you, and shoved his arms under yours to complete the braid right next to your own hands. 

You were stunned. Vincent had never willingly gotten this close to you before, even under the guise of helping. You followed his strong fingers with your own, tracing the patterns he made. Your fingertips brushed against his knuckles and his motions stuttered for a second. Finally the braid was finished. But Vincent did not move away. 

You settled your hands over his with a feather-light touch, your heart threatening to jump out from under your ribs. You slowly turned around to face him. Vincent had braced himself on the table, trapping you between him and the floured surface. His single eye burned as it looked out at you from the shadowed socket of the mask. 

The room suddenly felt very, very warm. 

“You know,” You breathed quietly, inches from his wax facade, “I never did thank you for that rose you made me.” 

Vincent exhaled very slowly, looking caught between backing off, and closing the gap between you both. 

You decided to take matters into your own hands. 

“Hey Y’all, is that bread done? Because I was feeling kinda hungry and I-” Lester Sinclair waltzed into the kitchen in his pajama shirt, because of  _ course  _ he would choose this  _ one specific moment  _ to bother you about food. He froze with one foot in the room, mouth agape. 

Vincent jumped away from you like he’d been burned. 

“Or…” Lester said slowly, carefully backing away like we were two easily-frightened deer, “I can come back… later…” He hurried back up the stairs, his footfalls heavy. 

You hung your head and gave a single dry laugh.  _ Cock-blocked by the little brother _ . Typical family drama. You looked to Vincent, who was pretending to check the oven temperature. He shoveled the intricate bread designs onto a pan and slid it into the oven rack as if he was trying to pretend what had just happened had not actually happened.

A few minutes later the bread was done. You grabbed a few thick kitchen towels and pulled the painfully-hot pan out of the oven and slid it onto the counter top. Once you were sure it wasn’t in any danger of falling to the floor you had a chance to look at your pastries; and you gasped in delight. 

“Vince, look! Oh my god, they turned out so well!” You said in awe. He paused his shuffling cleaning of the kitchen to look over your shoulder. It was true, his delicate little designs had inflated and gone golden brown. The buns looked like they had come straight from the display case of some up-and-coming fancy city bakery. 

“Oh man, Bo and Lester are gonna be eating their words tomorrow when they come down for breakfast! Hopefully they’ll be eating bread too.” You patted the crusty surface of one of the loaves. “I’ll just put these puppies in a drawer, keep them fresh.” 

Vincent gave a single bobbing nod and made a beeline for the door. The beer in your veins buzzed; you weren’t about to lose him to the warrens of his studio right now, no sir! You followed him for a few steps. “Hey, Vinny?” 

When he turned around you summoned all of your courage to grab two fistfuls of his sweater, stand on your tip-toes, and press your soft mouth against the waxy shell of his mask. 

The man before you went rigid for a brief second, making a surprised noise, as if he was unsure if this was really happening. After a moment he softened, and you felt his two strong hands grab the sides of your arms as if he were anchoring himself in this moment. The cardigan-padded planes of his chest pressed against your own as he took a shuffling step closer. 

Eventually you broke the kiss; you could only kiss wax that didn’t kiss you back for so long. “There,” You breathed against his fake lips. “That’s my thank you for the rose. I guess we’re even now.” 

He startled at your last sentence, pulling his head back and pushing away from your embrace. After a few seconds of quiet- hurt?- staring, Vincent hurried away towards the trapdoor to his studio in a flurry of black hair. 

“Vincent.” You called after him. He didn’t stop. “Vincent?” You trailed after him for a few steps, but he was gone. You frowned and worried at your lower lip. Something you said had deeply upset him, which in turn, deeply upset you. Just when you thought things were finally going in the right direction. 

The oven beeped behind you and you groaned. You had left it on. 


	8. 8: Bo is Pissed (For all the Wrong Reasons)

You were trudging back up the gravel road the next day when the shit really hit the fan. The sun still hung in the middle of the sky by the treeline, but it was barely even spring so the light was weak and unwarming. Rocks crunched under your shoes as you headed back towards the Sinclair house. 

With a tremendous  _ bang _ , the front door slammed open. “You!” Bo shouted around his cigarette, pointing and storming towards you. You were immediately overwhelmed with apprehension at the sight. Bo was an asshole on the best of days, a whirlwind of anger and throwing shit on the worst ones. Today looked to be one of the bad ones, and his fury seemed to be directed straight at you. 

With an open mouth, you started to ask what was wrong, but you didn’t get the words out. Vincent’s twin shoved you, hard, with both hands. You stumbled backwards a few feet, barely managing to not fall over. 

“What the hell, Bo?” You snapped, backing away from him. 

“What the hell?” He sneered, “What the  _ hell _ ? You know  _ damn  _ well what you did, stringing my brother along like that! You’re a fucking bitch, you know that?” He kept walking forward and you kept scrambling back. You had a bad feeling that if he got too close, he’d do more than just shove you this time. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” You protested. 

“Vincent’s dumb as hell, and he may be a freak, but he’s my  _ brother.  _ He’s blood.” Bo was snarling, livid. “You knew he had a stupid fucking crush on you, you  _ knew  _ he was vulnerable like that, and you’ve kept teasing him anyway. Oh, I know  _ all  _ about that little present you gave him. What was that? Some sick fucking joke?” He closed the gap between you and grabbed the front of your shirt, nearly hauling you off your feet. Spittle flew in your face. “And  _ now  _ I find him down in his workshop all torn up because what have you gone and done? Kissed his  _ fucking mask,  _ making him even more aware of how goddamn ugly he is?” 

Prying Bo’s strong fingers off of you was a futile task, but you tried anyway. His last sentence made you pause, looking up at him. “He told you about-”

“Of course he told me! I’m his family! And I actually care about him, unlike  _ some  _ of us here!” 

_ That  _ pissed you off. You dug your nails into Bo’s skin hard enough to make him loosen his grip on your shirt, then shoved him back with the palm of your hand. “Listen,  _ asshole _ .” With all these wild accusations he was throwing, it was  _ your  _ turn to be venomous. “Whatever’s going on between Vincent and me is none of your  _ goddamn business _ . And how- how  _ dare  _ you have the balls to say I’m stringing him along, that I’m hurting him! I would never hurt Vincent! I…”

“You  _ what _ ?” 

“I really care about him.” The admission was quiet, almost hurt in tone. It made Bo let go of your shirt completely. You felt a hot flush rise to your cheekbones, and you avoided his eye contact. “I just… Vincent is finnickey. I don’t think he has a lot of... experience in this. I don’t want to scare him. I especially don’t want to  _ hurt  _ him by coming onto him like that.” You squared your shoulders and gathered yourself. “But I  _ never  _ teased him, Bo. He’s too good for that.” 

It was Bo’s turn to look hurt. It was almost unnerving, how quickly his emotions could turn on a dime. He went from livid to wistful in a matter of seconds; it was almost like he was looking at you and not seeing you at all. “Yeah. He is. Mamma used to say that too; she’d call him her little angel.” He paused for a few seconds in remembrance. “But that didn't stop her from lettin’ pops carve off more and more of his face every year.” 

“...His whole face?” You asked quietly. This was an  _ incredibly  _ sensitive topic in the Sinclair household. Last time you asked, Vincent excused himself from the room and Bo spit on the floor and refused to acknowledge that you even spoke. All you could piece together from photos and snippets of framed newspaper was that Vincent and Bo were once conjoined identical twins: conjoined by a good portion of Vincent’s face. You assumed that the mask was to cover up a line of scar tissue but… he was actually missing  _ parts  _ of his face that their off-the-rails father surgically removed?

“No.” Bo said after a moment. He took a deep drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke into the chilly wind. “Good chunk of it, though. Pops kept saying he’d make it all better: but it always looked just as bad. Worst part of it was how much it hurt Vincent.” 

“Then why don’t  _ you  _ have any…” You pointed to the side of Bo’s unblemished face.

Bo lifted his jaw and pointed to the edge of it that curled up and behind the ear. It was incredibly faint, but there was a paper-thin scar that ran all the way across. “Miracle a’ skin grafting. Nip here, tuck there, and no-one would ever be able to tell I was born any way but normally.” He dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his heel into the gravel and ran his hand across the back of his head with a sigh. “Listen, missy. I’m awful sorry about that back there. Vincent’s been dealt bad cards his whole damn life. Not one girl on the face of this Earth has ever courted my brother and not run for the hills. I just… want to protect him. Keep him safe. He may be a freakshow, but he’s blood.” 

“Stop calling him that.” You replied quietly. “You know as well as I do that there are a lot of people in the world right now that deserve to be called freaks, but Vincent isn’t one of them.” 

The smile that graced the Sinclair twin’s face was by no means broad or kind. Instead it was remorseful and understanding. Bo looked at you with sad eyes; eyes that had seen incredible abuse and isolation in the past. “I reckon you’re right.” He said. He lit another cigarette with a zippo lighter, puffed it, and blew the smoke back in your face. You coughed, waving your hands in the air. His sad grin grew just a little bit bigger. “I’m headed up to Baton Rouge. Gonna sell off some of the clothes and jewelry we’ve been accumulatin’. You wanna come?” 

Bo got a dirty look for his efforts to be friendly. “No.” You replied dryly. “I think I’ll stick around here.” 

“Fine.” Bo was already headed down the driveway, taking out a banged-up flip phone and texting Lester. He stopped for a brief second. “In case I haven’t made it abundantly clear, if you hurt my brother in any way, shape, or form, I’ll string you up in the museum myself.” 

“Bye, Bo. Have fun at the pawn shops.” 

“Yeah yeah, whatever.” Bo stuck his smoke back in his mouth, puffing his way through it as he headed down the hillside. 


	9. 9: Behind The Mask (Vincent/Reader)

The workshop was empty and silent. Odd, considering that even when Vincent  _ wasn’t  _ down there working, there was always something going on. Not even the fires under the wax boilers were lit. Those things took  _ hours  _ to reheat; was he just planning on not making anything today? 

You called for him aloud in the low-lit room. Nothing answered you back save for the rattle of the steam in the ceiling pipes, and the distant whistle of wind through the ventilation grates. With a huff you twisted the hem of your shirt under nervous fingernails and left the room. It couldn’t be put off any longer; you had to talk to Vincent, face to face. If you didn’t you were scared your heart was going to pop. 

“Vince? You here?” You stuck your head into his pseudo-studio apartment that branched off from the studio. He wasn’t there, either. Nor was he in one of the many underground tunnels this town seemed to have. After around twenty minutes of walking you were just about ready to give up, and stomped up the stairs through the maintenance door in the Wax House’s fake kitchen.  _ What was I going to say, anyway _ ? You thought to yourself as you clumped through the polished halls.  _ Hi Vince, sorry about inadvertently making you relive your childhood trauma of romantic rejection: can you take off your mask so I can kiss you again?  _ Your teeth ground. It even sounded shitty inside your own  _ head _ . 

A smiling wax figure of a medal-sporting athletic woman grinned vacantly at you from across the wide entryway room. You opened your mouth to ask  _ and just what the hell are you staring at, lady _ ? when the slow shuffle of footsteps at the top of the spiral stairs caught your attention. Vincent was making his way back downstairs, dressed in his work apron and carrying a heavy-duty dolly with both arms. Clearly he had just finished installing a new art piece all by himself; impressive considering how steep the stairs were and how his wax works could weigh hundreds of pounds. 

You cleared your throat. Vincent startled and nearly lost his footing halfway down, looking wildly around for who made the noise. He didn’t like being upstairs in the daytime where wandering tourists and lost travellers could see him. 

“Hey.” You tried to pass your tone off as nonchalant despite the fact that you had been manhunting him for the past half hour. 

Vincent just looked at you silently from the stairwell before continuing to walk down, holding the heavy metal moving device. He was trying his best to ignore you. 

“I wanted to talk to you.” You pressed on, walking forward to meet him at the bottom of the stairs. “Seriously, Vincent. This is important. You can’t avoid me forever.” 

With an echoing  _ chaclunk _ , Vincent set the metal dolly down on the wax-coated floor. The sound bounced around the enormous hall, almost loud enough to make you flinch. “Don’t want to talk.” He croaked out after a moment. His words, as always, were muffled and dull by the thick layer of wax.

“Vincent. I  _ like  _ you.” You blurted out. It was impossible to put it any other way. “Like,  _ like-like  _ you. And I’m sorry if it ever seemed like I was making a joke at your expense about that.” 

Vincent made a dismissive and disbelieving noise, looking at the ground and slowly shaking his head. “Bo always said…” He paused like he was gathering his thoughts. “That you were a liar. I never thought…” another pause. “Never thought he was  _ right  _ until now.” 

“Bo doesn't know  _ shit _ , okay?” You interjected, taking another step forward. “Bo thinks that everyone looks at you and thinks the same thing he does, the same thing that your parents did: that you’re a freak.” 

“I am a freak.” He replied quietly and with an eerie stillness. 

“...What?”

“I  _ am a freak _ !” It was normally difficult to get a rise out of Vincent. But now he was angry: really, genuinely angry. His shoulders were stiff and his hands were clenched at his sides. The loud tone he suddenly spoke in sounded like a painful strain on his roughened voice. “I’m a  _ freak _ !” 

“No, you’re  _ not!”  _ You countered back, the same level of anger rising in the pit of your chest like a fever. The  _ vehemence  _ with which he defended the cruel accusation that others had flung at him over the years was gut-wrenching; how badly must he have been hurt to have embraced this insult so deeply? 

Vincent made a tortured sort of noise in the back of his throat; it was an angry thing. In a manic and flustered movement he scrabbled at his mask, working his fingers under it.  _ If nothing else can convince you, this will _ . His dark gaze straight towards you conveyed his message loud and clear. With a grunt, Vincent ripped the carefully sculpted facade away from his head. It landed on the ground with a hollow clatter. 

You put both of your hands over your mouth in shock. Vincent’s face wasn’t mangled. It was just… gone. A hollow of knotted scars and angry red flesh took the place of what would have been the right of his face. The scar tissue twisted the far right corner of his lip and crawled up the right side of his nose bridge. You could see with your own eyes, for the first time, the efforts his father had gone through to make the surgical procedure look cleaner, less atrocious. All it did was carve deeper and deeper into his face. It was a terribly gruesome sight that echoed with pain and hurt. 

In the half-second that it took for your expression to fill with surprise, Vincent had gone from unthinking anger, to shock, to heartbreaking regret and fear. He twisted his whole head away, trying to get it as far away from your prying eyes as he could, using a shaking hand to pull his long hair over his right side.  _ This was a mistake _ , his body language said.

Almost without realizing it you reached out to him, grabbing him by the sides of his head, pulling him closer to face you. Vincent resisted and grabbed your wrists with his own strong hands, but you continued to force his head upwards until his single eye met yours. It was wide and absolutely petrified. His mouth moved in half-formed and unspoken words that he couldn’t manage to get out. 

_ Why do my eyes feel hot _ ? You wondered distantly. A fat tear streaked down your cheek, and you had your answer. “Vincent, I’m so sorry.” You gasped out through your tight throat. 

Vincent pulled harder at your hands, his jaw clenching. 

“I’m so sorry, Vincent. I’m so sorry anyone  _ ever  _ made you feel like  _ who you are _ is monstrous. I’m so sorry you ever thought you were a freak.” 

With that you pressed yourself into him, dug your hands into his thick head of hair, and kissed him as hard as you could. 

A ripple ran through Vincent’s body like he had been electrocuted. Another noise pushed its way out of his throat, finally freed from his frightened silence. It was a whimper, but not one of pain: it was one of a relief he had never had the pleasure of experiencing. With that, he seemed to come alive. Vincent’s iron grip on your wrists fell away as he instead scrambled to hold you as tightly around the waist as he could, pulling you in as close as possible. 

You gasped into his mouth at the sensation. For so long he had been making tentative moves forward, only to jump ship when you reciprocated. This time he wasn't running. Your broke away for a moment to cup the side of his face in one hand, the other resting on his shoulder. “Oh, sweetheart.” Your breathed, looking at how widely Vincent’s pupil was blown. “We should have done this a long time ago.” 

Vincent let out a shaky breath and began to seek out your kiss again. You willingly obliged, enjoying the feeling of his soft lips and gentle sighs all too much. He was beautiful, he really was. His twinship to his brother showed in his steep cheekbone and strong chin; but you'd argue those features looked even nicer on Vincent, especially with his long hair. Again you broke away, but this time to press kisses to his cheek, his jaw, his neck. 

The Sinclair twin reacted exactly how you would expect a virgin to; with uneven breathing and unsteady hands. When you snuck both your hands underneath the soft weave of his sweater, his hot skin undulated against yours. You let out an appreciative hum at the lithe feel of the toned muscles in his torso; you wanted to feel more, touch more. Find every inch of his skin and give it the kindness that had been withheld from it for so long. 

“I haven’t- I don’t…” Vincent said after another few seconds. He grabbed a handful of your shirt in an attempt to get you to slow down. 

You smiled against the skin of his neck and pulled away, looking up at him.  _ Jesus, he’s already blushing _ . “You don’t know what you’re doing?” You grinned at the immediate head shake he gave you. “That’s okay, that’s fine. Do you… want to?” 

“Do I want... _ oh _ .” Your proposition clicked with Vincent, and his mouth opened into a surprised circle, his cheek growing even redder. “Yeah. I do. With you.” 

His hesitant enthusiasm kicked your heart into an even higher gear. The heat of the impassioned kiss had already begun to pool in your groin. “Okay. But maybe not here.” You teased him. You were both standing in the middle of the art collection, after all. Vincent swallowed and nodded. Then, to your utmost surprise, he swept you up bridal-style and began to power-walk down the hallway towards the kitchen maintenance door. You gasped in surprise and let out a laugh, grabbing ahold of his neck. You weren’t a feather-light girl; Vincent was just crazy-strong, and you had to remind yourself of that fact sometimes. 

You pressed a kiss to the corner of Vincent’s mouth. He paused his purposeful stride for a moment to kiss you back in earnest. You grinned into his lips; at this rate, you’d probably never get downstairs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Rosa Diaz voice): "You two just need to bone."  
(Bo Sinclair Voice): Bone?! BONE?!


	10. 10: Action over Words (Vincent/Reader NSFW)

You were right, in the end. You absolutely did not make it down into Vincent’s studio. 

The two of you pulled to the side at the bottom of the candle-covered stairs; you had been pressing so many soft and open kisses onto reachable parts of Vincent’s skin that he slipped and nearly lost his balance twice. Now you had him up against the wax-dripping covered concrete wall, biting down onto his lower lip and making him groan deep in the back of his throat. 

With your lips still attached to his, you fumbled with the apron knots behind Vincent’s neck and waist, letting the garment fall at his feet. This gave you ample access to the front of his jeans. You cupped your hand around his trapped member, your own heartbeat thudding loudly in your ears. You should have expected it, with all the grabbing and touching Vincent was doing, but he was  _ hard  _ underneath his pants. 

His eye flew open at the contact, and he grounded himself by grabbing your hip with one of his strong hands. 

“Good?” You asked, nipping at his neck and searching for the fly. You found the top of the zipper and pulled it open unceremoniously, helping Vincent shove the top of his pants down around his hips. 

His enthusiastic participation spoke for itself. Vincent let himself be held against the wall, tilting his head back so you could better lavish his neck with kisses and nibbles. “Mmm, good.” He got out, throat bobbing. Your fingers grazing over his boxers sent a shiver through his body. “Here?” He asked, looking back up the stairs. Theoretically, anyone could walk down them at any moment.

You grinned, leaned over next to the side of his head, and stuck a brazen hand into his underwear. Vincent gasped. “I don’t feel like waiting any longer, do you?” You asked, nibbling the shell of his ear. You brought your palm up to spit in it, then stuck it right back down, starting with slow and languid strokes up Vincent’s burning hot cock. 

He shuddered in response, moving his hips with the strokes and tentatively reaching one hand up to cup your breast through your shirt. Even over a few layers of fabric, the soft brush of his thumb across your nipple was electric. You pushed your tongue further into his mouth and relished the feeling of his silky head as you increased the frequency of your strokes. The furnaces nearby were off, yet sweat still beaded on Vincent’s lip. You kissed it away. 

“Jesus…” Vincent groaned, his legs growing shaky and weak, “I think… I’m going to…”

“I would  _ really  _ like it if you did.” You responded, twisting your hand in a particularly special way around his shaft. God, he felt so good; weighty and warm. You couldn’t help but wonder what he would feel like inside you. Vincent looked like he was going to break any second, his mouth hanging open and his eye unfocused as he solely concentrated on meeting your strokes with his own hip movements. It made sense that he was so close already: chances were he’d never been touched like this before by anyone. 

You planted a soft kiss onto his lips; it was chaste and sweet, not impassioned and sexual like the others had been. It spoke of tenderness. Of love. 

Vincent came with a low grunt, holding your shoulder in an iron grip and pulsing in your hand. Cum dribbled down the front of his own sweater as he gasped for air, breathing hard. The sight was almost enough to throw you completely off-balance with how absolutely soaked you were. 

Vincent pressed his sweat-tacky forehead to yours. “I need a new shirt.” He grumbled out, voice even rougher than before. 

You laughed and tucked a strand of his long hair behind his ear, trying to reign yourself in. He is- was- an utter virgin. It would probably be a little too much to ask of him if you pounced on him right now. “I reallllly don’t want to walk back to the house looking like this.” You said. “Bo might detach my head from my shoulders for corrupting his twin.” 

“Got shirts in the workshop.” Vincent replied. He looked down at you with a warm, almost-vulnerable gaze, as if he was worried that what just happened may have changed what you thought of him.

You intertwined your fingers together and nodded your head in the direction of the tunnel. “Let’s be off, then.” 

* * *

Vincent didn’t just have a spare shirt or two, he had a whole rack of clothing. His personal alcove was better-outfitted than you ever expected, honestly; most times you had come down here, the curtain that divided it from the workshop was drawn closed. But now you got to duck under it, following Vincent as he puttered around the space. He had a full-sized bed in there complete with vintage-looking pillows and a few knitted throw blankets. There was also an old drawer set, some shelves filled with knick-knacks, and clusters of candles inset into the walls that shed weak yellow-orange light over everything. On a nearby shelf sat several wooden mannequin heads with identical looking masks to the one Vincent had discarded upstairs in the heat of the moment. 

You moved to flop down on the bed when a dog’s head lifted itself up from the mess of blankets with a wuff. “Hi there.” You commented. 

“Out, Delilah.” Vincent said, shooing her with both hands. The dog’s tail thumped and she hopped out from under the single blanket she was cuddled up in, trotting out of the studio and down a distant hallway. As soon as she was gone you shook off your shoes and belly-flopped into the non-dog-hairy sheets. Vincent gave a huff of amusement at your antics before turning back to the clothing rack, sliding hangers around. You pressed your cheek to one of the pillows. There was something uniquely intimate about sprawling out on Vincent’s private cot; a place you assumed he let very few people see, if ever. It even  _ smelled  _ just like him. The low and insistent heat in your groin returned. How many times had he jerked himself off here? What did his face look like in those intimate moments when he was alone with himself? 

You were drawn to the sight of Vincent shrugging off his sweatshirt. The muscles in his back flexed and bunched in the candlelight, the arc of his spine a tantalizing line. You wanted to run a finger down it. 

Vincent turned back around and buttoned down his shirt. It was a black work shirt, the logo of the town’s single gas station stamped on the upper left side. It had clearly seen some better days: it was frayed and worn to hell and back. 

You rolled onto your stomach to make space for Vincent on the bed at pat the blankets next to you. He looked between you and the mask mounted on the wodden head mannequin nearby, his long black curtain of hair shifting over the right side of his face. 

“You don’t need it here.” You commented, distracting him from the pull to hide and conceal by making stubborn grabby-hands in his direction. 

With a quiet exhale he crawled onto the bed towards you. You eagerly met him with another kiss, settling in until you were both side by side, facing one another. He trailed his strong fingers over the valley of your shoulder to your hip. You shifted under his touch. 

“Thanks for talking to me.” You said after a while. Your voice sounded loud in this itty-bitty room. 

“Didn’t have much choice.” Vincent replied with a lopsided smile. His hand trailed up your arm, feeling the texture of your skin with the back of his fingers. He clearly had a case of the post-coital cuddles. 

“Yeah, well. If you opened your mouth a little more often, maybe we wouldn’t have had such a rough time.” You joked, resting an arm over his shoulder. 

Vincent looked away, like he was debating whether or not to admit something. “Talking… always hurts.” He said quietly. 

Your idle fidgeting stilled. “It… jesus, it does? Vincent, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “And here I was goading you into speaking, always asking questions just for the sake of getting answers.” 

He smiled again, and this time you were intimately aware of how it pulled at the scar tissue in the far corner of his mouth. “It’s fine. Not horrible. Eating hurts too, sometimes. Smiling hurts, talking hurts. Both are worth it, for you.” 

You grabbed his wandering hand and kissed its knuckles, before pressing closer to catch his lips with yours. That damnable wandering hand resumed its idle roaming across your body and you sighed into Vincent’s mouth. “I like it when you say such sweet things, Vinny. Do it again.” 

The hand went across your ribs, broad and soft. “I like your voice.” Vincent said quietly. “I like your shape. Like how you move.”

His finger caught on the hem of your pants. You took direct action against Vincent’s accidental teasing and shifted a little to let your legs fall open. It was a blatant invitation you desperately hoped he’d accept. 

Vincent glanced down at just how close his hand was to your crotch, then back up to you. That beautiful flush returned. “I…” He gathered his thought for a moment. “I don’t know how to make you feel good.” 

“Yeah you do.” You whispered to his close face. You put your free hand over his own and settled it directly onto your pelvic bone. It was hot even over the fabric and once more you were consumed with a foggy need. “You’ve been touching me this whole time, haven’t you?” 

With a slight shift, Vincent got up on one elbow and slowly,  _ torturously  _ slowly, ran a few fingers down between your legs in a slow, consistent petting motion. 

“I’ll walk you through it. It’ll be fine.” You assured him. You scooched up to rest against the wall and wriggled out of your jeans. Vincent nodded and ran his tongue over his teeth before carefully pulling your underwear off like it was the most precious piece of clothing in the universe. His hesitant moves were horribly adorable; he wanted so very badly to please. 

You arched your back when the wide pads of his fingers made contact with your slick lips. “You’re wet?” He breathed, looking bowled over.

“Vincent,” You said in the most composed voice you could as his fingertips ran up and down your slit, “I am really fucking attracted to you. Of course I’m wet.” 

Vincent’s confidence seemed to perk, and his caution morphed into curiosity. His fingers explored everything. He traced the outer edges of your lips and spread your folds with two hands, looking at your pink flesh with open attraction to it. He seemed to note everything he did that elicit a reaction from you, refining his touches every time. 

“Can-  _ fuck _ \- can I tell you a secret?” You said unsteadily as his knuckle grazed your clit. “I used to think about you in the shower.” 

Vincent flushed an even darker color and lifted one of your legs up so he could have more access to your soaking cunt. “In the house?” He asked hoarsely. 

“It’s true.” You tried to focus on talking, but just the  _ sight  _ of Vincent’s fingers slick with your own fluids was enough to heat your core even further. “I’d sit in there at night after I washed my hair, thinking about you. Your shoulders, your hands.  _ Fuck _ , I think about your hands so often. Think about those fingers inside me.” 

Vincent took the prompt and ran with it, breaching you with one finger and starting a pattern of slow, even thrusts. You let out a soft moan when the one digit turned to two. Vincent’s breath was hot against your leg, and you reached over to wriggle one hand into his hair holding it tight. “You thought about me?” He asked when he felt your hand, turning his gaze to you. The writhing of his digits grew more intense. 

Your whole body felt alight, the pleasure of his rough fingers pressing into your soaked insides good enough to make your eyes roll back. “What sane p… person wouldn’t?  _ Christ  _ Vincent, yes, curl those fingers a little bit for me baby.” 

The pads of his fingers scraped across your g-spot with exquisite frequency. You rocked your hips back into his hand, riding it. “Okay, okay.” You breathed hard. “Take your thumb and start rubbing my clit right above my pussy.” He started pressing it like someone might idly click a pen, so you reached your hand between your own legs and held his thumb, massaging it in soft circles over your clit. Lightening went up your spine; you were so incredibly close. 

Using the hand you had pushed into Vincent’s hair, you drew him close to you and kissed him, whining into his mouth. “So good, Vinny. So good. I’m gonna cum.” 

“I would really like it if you did.” He parroted your words back at you with a lopsided smile. 

With that you clamped down on his fingers, vision tunneling as the most powerful orgasm you had had in months wracked you from top to bottom. It felt like your soul was being ripped from your body and right into the fingers that Vincent was still determinedly wriggling inside you. As you came down from your high you started to twitch and shake from overstimulation, and gently grabbed Vincent’s wrist, pulling his fingers out from you. 

It took you a minute to really come back. When you did, Vincent was wiping his hand on his pants, resting his head on his free hand and just looking at you. You smiled up at him, letting your head drop onto the pillows. “Hi, handsome.” Great, now  _ you  _ had the post-sex raspy voice. 

“Can we do that again?” Vincent asked bluntly, eye glittering. 

“Ready for round two so soon?” You laughed. With a swiftness you didn’t expect yourself to have right after an epic orgasm, you pressed Vincent to the bed and straddled his clothed hips, pressing your naked sex to his crotch. “I wasn’t aware that I wrangled myself a stallion.” 

Vincent bucked up and you whined at the feeling of his fly against your bare flesh. He opened his mouth to speak, but the echoing slam of the studio door being thrown open interrupted him. 

“Vincent? Vincent?!” It was Bo, sounding absolutely panicked and terrified; a high tone in his voice you had never heard before. Vincent and you exchanged looked of equal deer-in-the-headlights panic.  _ Shit.  _ You barely had time to grab one of the blankets next to you and wrap it around your waist before the other Sinclair twin threw open the curtain so violently, one might have thought it insulted his mom. 

“Vincent, where are- JESUS CHRIST!” Bo squawked. He had taken one step into the room, gotten an eyeful of you straddling his brother, and immediately turned around. Now you could see Vincent’s mask- the one he had dropped upstairs- clutched tightly in Bo’s hand. It clicked for you; Vincent was one half of the only family he had left. Seeing a mask tossed to the ground and no Vincent attached to it must have terrified him, considering his brother never went anywhere without it. 

“You mask was just-  _ lyin’ there,  _ and  _ you  _ weren’t around, and I-  _ Jesus.”  _ Bo repeated. As he spoke the alarm drained from his voice, replaced with something distinctly pissed off. Bo stormed out of the little room, letting the curtain fall behind him. 

“Sorry!” You called after him, grimacing. This  _ really  _ wasn’t ideal; you didn’t know  _ how  _ you were ever going to be able to look the Sinclair twin in the eyes after this. 

“Not another  _ damn word  _ out of you!” Came the borderline-shrill reply, followed by the distinctly recognizable noise of Bo fumbling for a cigarette. “I’m gonna go drink myself stupid, try an’ forget I ever saw that.  _ Jesus fucking christ.  _ Neither of you are going to heaven!” His voice trailed off as he made his way out of the studio. 

Only when the heavy door slammed behind him did you let out the breath you had been holding with a heavy  _ woosh _ . You looked back at Vincent, who looked like a schoolboy caught smuggling candy. 

You burst into laughter and fell forward onto Vincent’s torso, giggling into his neck. Underneath you, his stomach spasmed with his own relieved chuckling. “I should get a lock for the door.” He said. 

“You really should.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've been toeing the line in last chapters but now we've officially crossed it. The good boy finally gets porn! It ended up being a lot more words than I expected, but that's not really a bad thing.


	11. 11: The Cat Dilemma

You were craving breakfast food. The only kind that the family kept stocked in their house was instant oatmeal and powdered coffee, and having that every single morning was kind of a downer. After a little bit of sweet talking and sucking up to Lester (the primary breadwinner of the household) he agreed to go grab some eggs and bacon with you from the local diner twenty minutes away. 

Together you crunched across the gravel in the front of the house, heading for the truck as February sun began to weakly trickle through the treeline. “Sonovabitch, it’s gold.” Lester chattered, sniffling. He wasn’t the only one feeling the freak weather. You stuffed your hands deeper into your coat pockets to try and escape the chill. This particular county had been experiencing an unprecedented cold dip over the past few days, going down even into the mid-thirties; something that  _ never  _ happened in Louisiana. 

You swung open the door and clambered inside the truck, stomping your feet to work feeling back into your toes. 

“Well I’ll be damned!” Lester’s voice came through, muffled by the car door opposite you. “Hey, come look at this!” 

With a drawn-out eye roll you oblige, exiting the truck and walking around the back.  _ I swear to god, if he’s going to show me a weird bone or skull he found in the truck bed,  _ you thought grumpily. “What.” You asked, rubbing your arms in the cold. 

Lester was crouched by the wheel well of the front tire. When he stood up, he was beaming. In his arms he held a tiny fluffy ball of fur about the size of a tennis ball. “Look who I found tryin’ to keep warm inside my truck!” He said. His dirty fingers scratched and the furball, which moved and gave a little  _ mrrp _ . “His mama an’ his two brothers didn’t make it through the cold night, it seems. They’re dead on my tire. But  _ this  _ little one wasn’t too keen on lettin’ god take him just yet, were you?” Lester’s voice trailed upwards as he began to baby-talk the kitten he had just found hiding by his tire. 

A slow smile crept onto your face, accompanied by a giddy sensation that only adorable animals could bring on in people. “Oh my god!” You said, reaching out to pet the kitten. “He’s so cute! Look at those little ears! And that nose! Lester,” You turned to him and jerked a thumb towards the house door, “breakfast is cancelled. Let’s get that little guy inside and fed.” 

Lester nodded and tucked the little guy under his jacket as you both headed back indoors. 

* * *

“We’re not keepin’ it.” Bo said, arms crossed. 

“Aw, c’mon!” Lester protested. You shot Bo an incredulous look to go with Lester’s protest. The both of you were seated on the living room couch, watching the kitten eat out of Lester’s hand from his seat in your arms. Lester had spent the past five minutes tearing and mashing up some of the leftover gamefowl he had cooked into a mushy and easily digestible paste for the little cat. You were honestly surprised at how immediately invested he was in the little guy. 

“We already got a dog!” Bo replied, gesturing with his mug of coffee at Delilah, who was napping on a rug in front of the fireplace. “And I ain’t responsible for what she does to that cat! They’re natural born enemies, ain’t they?” The kitten in your arms purred as it was eating, making choppy little sounds in between bites. Bo shot a glare at it as it effectively undermined his argument by being goddamn adorable. 

“Bo, have a heart.” Lester pressed, carefully pinching another glob of meat between his fingers and feeding it into the kitten’s tiny mouth. “He ain’t got no parents to rely on. His two brothers ain’t around to take care of him! He’s all on his own; he  _ needs  _ us.” 

You looked at the mousey, stubbly man opposite you with a flash of recognition;  _ that’s _ why he immediately felt such sympathy for the creature.  _ He  _ was the kitten. Always the third wheel, always left to his own devices, even in his own family. You always knew that the Sinclair’s mother and father were either focused on ‘fixing’ Vincent, or caging Bo. Maybe there was no room for a younger brother in that picture. 

Bo rubbed his brow and took a long sip of his coffee. Just has he opened his mouth to say something, looking tired and put-off, a set of heavy bootfalls were heard from the far back room. Vincent had spent the night doing catch-up work in the studio, and had just now come back to the house through the trap door. 

“Vinny!” You called, leaning towards the wide doorway, “We’re all in the livingroom! Come here!” 

Vincent slunk in a few moments later, in that same hunched and ‘don’t mind me’ posture he always took around his brothers. You beamed at him from the couch, and he stood up a little straighter, giving you a wiggly wave.

“Vincent, check it out.” Lester crowed, nodding his head towards the kitten with a grin as he fed it one last little chunk of meat. 

Bo tried to put a hand out and stop Vincent from walking forward (probably because he knew once his twin got his hands on the kitten there would be no turning back) but Vincent artfully dodged the outstretched limb. His hands were already extended, masked eye locked on the tiny fluffy creature. You held the kitten up carefully. Vincent gingerly took it, holding it like it was made of glass and tilting his head in utter fascination. The kitten made a high sort of ‘mrow’ sound and without hesitation closed its tiny mouth around a few strands of Vincent’s hair. 

Vincent was immediately and obviously in love. He held the kitten close to his flannel-layered chest and scritched its tiny head behind the ears with two wax-dirty fingers, emitting a small grunt of delight when the kitten responded by pushing itself further into his palm. 

Meanwhile, Bo stood behind him, looking completely defeated. He shoved his face into his hand with a muffled ‘christ’, seeing as he was now outnumbered three to one. When he raised his head he was confronted with the bright and anticipatory stare of you and both the other Sinclair brothers. 

“Fine.  _ Fine.”  _ He huffed, drinking the last of his coffee. “But I ain’t takin’ care of it, y’hear? This is all on you three. When something happens to it, don’t come runnin’ to me.”

“You should name him.” Lester said, wiping his meat-damp hands on his puffy vest.

Bo looked somewhat taken aback. Vincent seemed to sense this. Ever trying to comfort and care for his brother, he shuffled forward towards him and gestured with his arms for Bo to look at the kitten cradled within them. Bo looked down at the cat, obviously trying to keep his grouchy face in place when the whole family was being so tender around him. 

With a single hesitant finger he pet the kitten’s downy and round little belly. The kitten peeped. “...Looks like a Jackson to me.” He said begrudgingly. 

“It’s a Jackson!” You said loudly, raising your hands in the air in celebration and vindication. Lester followed suit, raising his arms and cawing the kitten’s name. Vincent raised the kitten into the air like a scene out of the lion king. 

“I live in a house of idiots.” Bo muttered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vincent: (pops a lunge and holds the kitten up like Simba)  
Bo: (crying) "I hate all of you"


	12. 12: Mardi Gras

The outfit you were dressed up in was surprisingly nice. It was a flapper-eque dress with a beaded trim and (nearly) matching shoes to go with it. You and Vincent had spent the better half of the day combing through the House of Wax’s back storage trunks looking for the right thing to wear for tonight. All in all, it looked like you were going to a party; and you absolutely were. 

“Excuse me, young man.” You said loudly, tapping Lester on the shoulder and using your best ‘southern belle’ voice. “But could you tell me who that handsome fella is over in that there corner? I might try my luck on courtin’ him.” 

Lester looked over at where you were pointing with a grin. Vincent was standing in front of a full-length (and somewhat spotty) mirror mounted on the wall, straightening the edges of his disco sequined jacket. “Well, little lady.” Lester replied, also loud enough for Vincent to hear him, “You might be plum outta luck. That gentlemen’s already got himself a sweetheart.” 

Vincent was fumbling with the buttons on his jacket and kept missing the hole they went into, distracted by your loud conversation. He shot a quick glance over his shoulder at you, caught you staring, and quickly went back to his buttons. 

You moseyed over. “Let me.” You prompted, shooing his hands away and buttoning up his blazer. Vincent looked down at you from his unusually colorful mask. You had argued with him that he couldn’t go to the Mardi Gras parade in his plain one. It would stick out too much. So being the clever and artistic man that he was, he decorated it with lines and arcs of painted color that swam across the whole thing in mesmerizing patterns. “You look great.” You added, running a hand across his bedazzled clothes. 

“I feel like a sparkly idiot.” He replied hoarsely before gently taking your hand in his. You kissed his fingertips tenderly, placing his hand on your cheek. His gaze grew warm. 

“You _ look _ like a sparkly idiot.” Bo replied, tromping down the stairs in a leather jacket and work jeans. He had completely refused to decorate in _ any _way for the festivities tonight, despite the amount you harassed him about it over the past few days. “Even Lester’s dressing up!” You had complained. Bo had shot right back at you with the claim that Lester could dress up as anything he wanted to, he’d still look just as stupid. You elbowed him for that. 

You sighed through your nose. “We ready to go?” You asked. 

Bo jingled the keys looped onto his finger. “I wouldn't be sayin’ yes if New Orleans wasn’t just an hour ‘n a half away. But we ain’t staying there all night, and not _ one _of you,” He pointed at Lester in particular, “Is gettin’ drunk and doing something they might regret. The last thing we need is to draw attention to ourselves. I don’t even know why we’re doin’t this, this is stupid as all hell.” 

“Let’s go, people!” Lester whistled and gestured out the door, tilting the cheesy tophat you had found for him in the costume storage. “The parade ain’t gonna wait for us to get there to start!”

* * *

Convincing the Sinclairs to go to the parade might have been the best and worst thing you had ever done. They hardly even left their house, the lot of them; and beyond that, two of them never left the _ town _ . Bo and Vincent had no desire to go anywhere that was not one of the dusty shops and stores from their childhood; it looked very much to you like they were stuck in their past. You _ wanted _to get them out into the world, and the annual parade down in New Orleans seemed like the perfect way to do that. It was crowded enough that they wouldn’t have to worry about being singled out, and creative and artistic enough to be a genuinely enjoyable thing. 

You held Vincent’s hand as you walked through the completely packed street, the ragtime music of the bands on the nearby floats vibrating in your teeth. Vincent’s head was on a swivel, like he couldn’t possibly see enough. You figured it was more ‘people-y’ and crowded than anything he’d seen in his life. Everywhere you looked streamers flew and sparklers sparked against the night sky, brandished by children running around the legs of paraders. Everybody was wearing some sort of tacky costume, mask, or long necklace of beads. Just a few minutes ago a troupe of jesters in purple and green outfits came barreling by, playing trumpets. One slung a few necklaces over your head, making you giggle and shout a thank you. 

It was worrying, at first, when you stepped out of the truck once you had all found parking. Vincent looked paralyzed. He didn’t like people, and he especially didn’t like people _ looking _at him. He had spent a lifetime alone in self-imposed isolation. But as soon as he was swept up in a crowd of gaudy partiers he seemed to notice that nobody gave two shits about him. Here, he looked like everyone else. He held your hand tightly and pulled you closer to the edge of the street to watch the parade. The sight made you grin. 

Bo and Lester split off after you all agreed to meet at the packed bar in an hour. You had actually seen the youngest Sinclair brother across the street, whistling and applauding with a group of other people as he watched an expert juggler toss flaming hoops into the air. 

After a while of wandering through the loud throngs of people and looking at the giant flashy floats that ambled down the road, the headache that was nestled in the back of your head grew a little more aggressive. Your walking slowed as you began to lose energy; you were beginning to feel overwhelmed by the endless noise. But you had to keep going; Vincent was enjoying himself.

Vincent put a hand on your shoulder and cocked his head, staring at you. You smiled at him. He squeezed his hand and led you around the corner and across a thoroughfare. Opposite it was a grassy park. It seemed to be the place to rest; small groups of dressed-up festival goers relaxed on the ground and on the benches. A musician leaned up against a sycamore tree, playing a slow jazz on his saxophone. You found a spot on the turf behind another large tree, further away from other people, and sat down with a huff. _ Damn if my feet aren’t going to be sore tomorrow _ . You thought, rolling your ankles. The parade _ looked _fun, sure, and this party was world renowned… so why weren’t you having fun? “Hey.” You asked Vincent, who was cross-legged beside you, “You alright?” 

Vincent shrugged, fiddling with a blade of grass and looking at all the other partygoers uneasily. When Vinny lied, he refused to make eye contact; and right now he was lying like a motherfucker. 

“Vince.” You prompted, scooching close. “C’mon, babe. You good? Be honest with me.” 

He let out a sigh and wrapped one arm around your shoulders, more for his comfort than your own. “I…” He huffed. “It’s loud. Bright. Lots of people.” He paused. “But you like it, so I’m tryin’ to enjoy it.”

You looked straight up at Vincent’s multicolored mask before bursting into laughter. He pulled his head back in confusion. You let your head fall against his chest, speaking into his jacket. “Honey. I’ve been tolerating this parade for the past hour because I thought you were really enjoying yourself.” 

“I thought _ you _were.” 

“No!” You smiled and ran your hand over his knuckles. “I thought I would, but. Turns out I like spending time with you in the quiet more than I do here. I… like being close to you without all of- _ this _.” You waved your hand towards the nearby streamers that hung tree to tree. 

“Maybe…” Vincent trailed off as if he were working himself up to say something. “You and I can go home… celebrate in a _ nicer _way.” 

You brought your hand up to your mouth in a mock gasp. “Mr. Sinclair, are you propositioning me?” 

He laughed in the raspy way he always did. “Might be.” 

You hopped to your feet. “Well then let’s get to that bar and get the hell out of here, hmm?” Vincent nodded and you both began to mosey off across the grass and into the evening twilight. You gave him a small smack on the ass as you walked, making him nearly jump out of his skin and look at you with a single flabbergasted eye. You laughed and held his hand as you stepped into the street. 

* * *

Bo was a hypocrite. He was so vocal about not getting drunk at the parade, yet you and Vincent found him sitting inches away from a girl at the bar, surrounded by empty shot glasses and flirty with slurred words. The girl put a hand on his knee, laughing at his joke with an alcohol blush on her cheeks equal to his. You and Vincent exchanged a weighted look and rolled your eyes. 

“Hey there, Bo.” You said, walking up and tapping him in the shoulder. 

He turned around clumsily, face falling. “Wha, ‘s time to go already? Damn. ‘N here I was about to get my dick wet.” 

You grimaced at his lack of filter. Bo turned back around on his barstool to keep talking to the girl. She slapped him across the face with an affronted look, grabbed her bag, and wobbled away in a huff. Without missing a beat and looking completely unphased by the red mark on his cheek, Bo grabbed his hat off the counter and stood up. “Alright, let’s get out of here. Where’s Lester?” 

At that moment the bar door jingled, and the youngest Sinclair brother came waltzing in. He had a whole mess of mardi-gras beads around his neck and a bright purple lipstick kiss near his chin. His tophat was nowhere to be seen. “Hey!” He said once he rejoined the group, grinning from ear to ear. “Y’all want some necklaces? I got a few too many.” There was tequila on his breath; clearly he had been taking part in the festivities as well.

Vincent held a palm out to his twin, wiggling his fingers. “Keys.” He grunted, almost inaudible over the ruckus in the bar. 

Begrudgingly Bo fished them from his pocket and dropped them into Vincent’s palm. “Let’s get lost before I’m tempted to buy another shot.” He said. 

* * *

The sun had completely left the sky on the road back home. Bo was fast asleep, his face crammed against your shoulder. Lester, being the littlest, sat in the dead middle between you and Vincent, who was driving carefully driving. Sure, you all _ technically _fit in the truck’s giant front seat, but was it comfortable? In no way. 

Lester started to snore, his chin touching his chest. 

You watched Vincent put on the turn signal and turn off onto the little dirt back road that signaled your approach to Ambrose. “Hey.” You whispered to him across Lester. Vincent shot a glance at you before turning his eyes back to the road. “I’m glad we went today. Now I know how much I like to spend time with you at home.” 

Vincent let out a breathy laugh and removed one of his hands from the steering wheel, reaching across Lester. You took it and wove your fingers in with his. His grip was warm, safe. You caressed the back of his hand with your thumb and looked out the window at the Louisiana marshlands flying by. 

This was good. What you had was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys are back in town... and they hate it!  
I always assumed that a near-lifetime of living in a place as quiet and lifeless as Ambrose would lead to some pretty specific environmental tastes.


	13. 13: Playtime (Vincent/Reader NSFW/GFD)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heavily inspired by Schmeesky's amazing NSFW pinup art of Vinny! (SchmeeskyNSFW on Twitter)

It was another one of those gentle nights in Ambrose. Spring rain was falling on the town in a light, endless patter, blanketing the valley in cool darkness. These days, quite a large amount of your nights ended in the same way: walking across the thoroughfare, into and through the house of wax, and straight into Vincent’s arms. He was usually right in the middle of something; the man worked more hours in the day than anyone you had ever known. But he would always set it aside, soaking up any affection you gave him. 

Tonight was no different. You knocked on the doorway before you entered so as not to startle him; last time you ghosted up behind him he dropped a heavy wax stirring paddle on his foot. Vincent looked up from his work on one of the wide rolling tables, chisel in hand. He was carving out the rudimentary shape of a cake, a project that you knew would eventually go in the bakery’s window. Vincent set the tool down and wiped his hands on his apron as you skirted around the table. He pulled his mask down from his face, setting it on the polished chrome tabletop with a clunk. 

_ He used to never do that, not even for me _ , you thought admiringly. With a hum you stood on your tip toes, pressing little peck after peck onto Vincent’s lips until he relented and wrapped his arms around you, deepening your makeout. “I went for a walk in the woods today.” You said after a while, arms still slung around his neck. “I found a few things I think you’d like.” 

You slung off your messenger bag onto the table, searching through its contents. You often took a sketchbook and lunch into the forest, just to be alone for a little while. You sketched trees and pressed leaves, and even wrote some- admittedly terrible- poetry. Vincent wasn’t allowed to look inside the sketchbook, but to make up for it, you brought him back interesting things you found. He said they brought him inspiration, but really, you privately thought he just liked being given presents. “Let’s see…” You muttered, pulling out some objects, “I found an acorn with a hole shaped like a heart in it. Oh, here’s an earring someone must have lost- their loss, my gain. Oh! And an empty robin’s egg. Careful. It’s delicate.” 

You gently placed all the little treasures into Vincent’s waiting palm. He looked down at them, then back at you with a cocked eyebrow and a cautious stare. “That’s two extra. What do you want.”   
  


You winced.  _ Augh, he caught me _ . You were hoping to butter him up with some extra presents before you tackled a particular topic you hand in mind. The hand that you still had inside the bag idly thumbed over a thick bundle of rope. With a resigned sigh, you hopped backwards, up onto the tabletop, and thoughtfully clasped your hands together in your lap. “So. Vincent.” You started. 

Vincent, not once taking his eyes off of you, warily pulled up a tall barstool and perched on top of it. 

“How much do you know about… man, there’s really no PG way to put this… sexual deviancy? Kinks, and stuff?” 

Vincent blanched, but quickly recovered his composure. “... Some stuff.” He said, gauging your reaction to see if that was a good answer. “Read Ms. Mary’s guide. Bo talks about girls he’s been with.” 

You rolled your eyes, trying to keep a smile away by pressing your lips together. ‘Ms. Mary’s Guide for Dapper Young Men’ was a fifties romance guidebook on how to properly court a lady; it was hardly updated material. As for Bo, well. Sometimes he had no filter, and often only bragged about very niche things. Things that, out of context, would give  _ anyone  _ a warped perspective of what a ‘sexy scenario’ was. “That’s, uh.” You cleared your throat. “Alright. Good to know.” 

The Sinclair twin shifted uncomfortably on his stool. The metal piece of furniture was damn near dwarfed by him, with his imposing shoulders and long layers of hanging clothing. He stared out at you from under his hair. “Why?” 

It was time to bite the bullet. “I… well, I was wondering if you’d like to try something with me.” With a nervous hand you withdrew the long bundle of nylon and tossed it towards Vincent, who caught it and started inspecting it. “Vincent, I’d like to tie you up.” 

Vincent fumbled with the rope for a second, nearly dropping it to the ground and barely making a recovery. “What?” He croaked out. 

“Just hear me out, okay? It’s- and I promise this is true- it’s not to hurt you, or scare you.” You figured he might have a default dislike for the idea, what with the only tying-up in his life he had ever seen being his parents restraining his twin brother. “Just picture this. We start making out, soft, me on top like you love. I tease you a little bit…” You let your eyes drift very obviously down his body to the pelvis of his pants, “Get you all riled up. Hot and bothered.” 

Vincent shifted slightly on his stool. He gripped the rope a little tighter. 

“I get you right on that edge. And then I push you up on your work desk, tie your hands behind your back so you can’t touch, can’t move; you’re completely at my mercy. Then,  _ I  _ get to decide how good you feel. How your cock gets to be touched. When you get to cum.” 

You smiled, grin catlike. Vincent pressed his knuckles to his mouth, looking away from you for a few seconds. “Yeah.” His voice was loud in the dead-silent room. “Yeah, okay.” You were on him as soon as the sentence left his mouth, gently taking the rope from his hands and setting it on the table before feeling him up over his shirt with open palms. He swallowed hard, and you  _ knew  _ you had him; you always pegged him for someone who liked to be pushed around just a little bit.

Vincent slid off of the stool, pressing his mouth to your hungrily, grabbing at your waist, your sides. You walked him backwards across the room until his thighs hit the workbench, nearly toppling him over. He didn’t fall; you had him by the back of the head, fingers tight in his hair. When you gave it an experimental tug, he let out a short grunt of pleasure against your lips. The sound sent a wave of satisfaction through you, ending squarely in your groin. You did it again, pulling his head back so you could get at that gorgeously pale column of throat, nibbling and worrying his delicate skin with your teeth. Vincent gave in to the sensation openly, bracing himself against the desk and jerking his clothed hips up to rub against yours. 

This was as good a time as any to begin showing him the rules. You moved your hips away from his, grabbing him by the hipbone and forcing it to lay flat. You tutted. “No moving unless I say you can, okay sweetheart?” 

Vincent nodded enthusiastically. His lips were swollen and shiny from abuse. 

“Good. Now let’s get those clothes off, hmm?” 

He struggled to pull of his many layers of jackets and undershirts so fast you would have thought they caught fire. All the while you palmed him, running your nails up his torso and making him shiver.  _ Finally  _ he was in his underwear, vulnerable and bare before you. His erect cock pressed against the white material; the sight of it spurred your rapid shedding of your own pants. Vincent’s hand twitched like he wanted to help you with that, but it remained on the table behind him.  _ What a good boy _ , you thought appreciatively. 

You grabbed his dick from the outside of his underwear and gave it a gentle squeeze. Vincent stood up straighter with a gasp, and you laughed. “Are you alright with moving to step B?” You asked, peppering his blushing chest with kisses. 

“Yes please.” He groaned aloud when you pressed a wet, open kiss over his pink nipple. 

“Great. Hop up on the desk, honey. Back against the wall.” You walked back across the room to get the rope, running the smooth cording through your hands as you unwrapped it. When you returned back to Vincent, he looked a sight. Hair in a black waterfall over his shoulders. Chest and neck red, legs spread open and hanging off the desk. He was the very  _ picture  _ of want. He blushed and turned his face away when he saw you so openly ogling him. You licked your lower lip and dragged a chair over, using it to get a foot up so you could reach Vincent’s arms. 

Pulling his head forward, you carefully began to bind his upper and lower arms together, tying them so his elbows faced the ceiling. You stepped down from the chair, cracking your knuckles and admiring your handiwork. “How does it feel?” You asked

Vincent tugged, his upper body flexing, but his arms held fast, bound above his head. “Secure.” He muttered hoarsely. 

You walked back to the end of the desk his legs hung over with agonizing slowness, trailing a single finger from his face, to his shoulders, down his torso, stopping at his knee. Without ceremony you pulled his hips forward just shy of falling off the desk, so his legs hung helplessly open. His underwear you did away with not by pulling off, but simply cutting it away with a nearby carving knife. Vincent whined at the sight. His cock stood tall amidst a trimmed thatch of black body hair. 

With a generous handful of meaty thigh in each hand, you leaned forward and caught the head of Vincent’s dick with your lips, lavishing just the tip with attention. Vincent’s hips bucked up, and you squeezed his thighs painfully tight, digging your nails in. “That was your second strike, Vince. One more and you’re out.” 

Vincent let his head fall back against the wall with a thump and a noise of distress. You continued to tease him torturously, kissing up the sides of his shaft, licking at his taint. It was enough to keep him painfully red and hard, but not enough to get him closer to the edge. 

The minutes ticked by. You could tell he was doing his best to be quiet, worrying at his lower lip and squeezing his mouth shut. But when you took a hand away from his thigh to rub your aching sex through your underwear, he couldn’t stand it. “Please.” He asked so desperately, so sweetly. 

“Alright. You’ve been good.” You stood up and flexed your legs, getting a little feeling back into them after being crouched for so long. With shaky fingers you peeled your own underwear away, and Vincent groaned at the noticeable damp spot in the middle of them. You clambered up onto the table, straddling the man below you. He stared down at you with horny-beyond-frustration expression. You winked at him, lined yourself up on his cock, and slowly started to sink down. He split you open, burning with an incredibly delicious sensation. You haven't warmed up with a finger beforehand, but you’d taken him before with no issues. 

Vincent tossed his head back and forth as you sank down, centimeter by centimeter. When you were fully seated on him you let out a shivering exhale.  _ Christ _ , he felt so good slotted inside you. It felt like he curved perfectly against your walls, like someone had tailor-made him for you. With that in mind you dug your nails into his chest and began to ride him furiously, relentlessly, with no slow warm-up. Vincent was grunting like a seasoned whore, the rope straining behind him as he flexed his arms, wanting to touch something, anything. With each rolling thrust of your hips his hair swayed, falling over his face in messy clumps. 

“Jesus, Vincent,” You gasped, “You feel so good inside me. So damn good. So good, just for me.” 

You were both breathing incredibly hard, your heartbeat pounding wildly in your ears. Neither of you could last long like this. On a downstroke of your hips, you clamped down around his cock, squeezing it as tightly as you could. 

Vincent made the fatal mistake of letting his pleasure take over. He rocked his whole pelvis up into you, damn near unseating you with the power in his hips. Immediately, like a switch was flipped, you were off of his cock and sliding off the table. 

“No. Wait.” He said weakly, following your path of motion with one wide eye. 

It took all of your strength not to give into that gentle voice and throw yourself back on top of him. “I said three strikes and you were out, Vincent.” You reprimanded, moving like you were going to get your clothes, “And this is strike three.” 

“Please, no.”

You paused. “I like what I’m hearing. Say it again.” 

“Please.” Vincent said roughly. When you didn’t move, he tried again. “Please. Please come back. I’m sorry, please, please…” His words devolved into hoarse beggings from his flushed lips and reddened face. His dick, still glistening in the candlelight from your fluids, was so hard it looked like it hurt. 

You relented your cruel punishment, rubbing his leg soothingly and sliding back up the table. “You asked so nicely.” You said with a blushing smile. “How could I say no?” You sank back down onto his dick, braced yourself on either side of Vincent’s body, and set a pace that would make weaker men pass out. The head of Vincent’s cock insistently rubbed against that magic spot inside of you, making it incredibly difficult to think about anything.  _ Fuck,  _ you were gonna cum any second. The sight of him splayed out before you, so lost in his own pleasure, was almost too much to bear. 

“‘M gonna cum.” Vincent grunted unevenly, locking gazes with you. He looked up into your eyes like you were the moon and stars. 

“Me too… fuck,  _ shit _ -” You barely got the sentence out before your clit hit the base of his cock and you were cumming so hard you couldn’t see. Your whole body rocked, curling in towards itself; you were barely even away of Vincent letting out a broken sob as he spent his load inside you, rooted to the hilt. 

You both sat still, panting and letting the shocks run through your body, for a few minutes. Eventually you had the strength to lift yourself up off of his soft dick. His cum dribbled out from you and onto his pelvis. You crawled up next to him, helping him bring his arms back around in front of him and untying them. The rope left pale red marks on his skin. 

You moved to hop off the counter and find something to clean yourself up with but Vincent sat up and wrapped his fingers around your wrist. With a gasp of surprise you found yourself being lifted and placed back on Vincent’s lap. He caught your mouth in a kiss; it was soft and gentle and caring. You looked at his one singular eye. He looked… gentle. So gentle. And so in love, even if the two of you had never said it aloud. 

You draped your arms back around his shoulders and kissed him once more, content to sit on his naked lap for a little while longer.

The clean-up could wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone order (checks cue cards) 2,600 words of self-indulgent porn?


	14. 14: Water Fight

“God damned flies.” Lester griped, waving his cap in front of his face. You, him, and Bo all sat out on the porch steps, gnawing on the red, white, and blue rocket pops Lester had brought up from the gas station. Bo initially laughed it off, but when you threatened to eat his popsicle as well, suddenly he wanted one. 

Late spring had shifted into early summer, and Louisiana wasn’t being shy to show it. The everglades were blossoming, and crickets chirped in a loud chorus through Ambrose every single night. Worst of all was the heat; nothing too bad, only in the 70s and 80s, but a foreboding warning to the hellish temperatures of the summer’s zenith. You were already starting to sweat just from walking inside the family’s house. They had no central cooling to speak of save for a clunky old box fan they put right on top of the piano. 

Bo fanned himself with an old newspaper, looking out at the shifting grasses in the sun beside the house. The popsicle in his hand dripped down his arm and he swore, wiping his whole hand on his shirt. 

You hummed. This was nice. It was a quiet middle of the day that was good for just sitting, existing, and listening to the birds. You bit into the bottom of your popsicle; by now you had no doubts that your mouth was probably stained blue. After a few more minutes of relaxing on the porch, you turned to Bo. “Where’s Vincent?” You asked through a mouthful of frozen dessert. 

“You look like you blew a smurf.” Bo said, his tone one of ridicule. His eyes crinkled up from smiling. 

You rolled your eyes. “Answer the question.” 

“Ah, he’s probly’ down in his workshop again.” Lester said from the opposite side of the porch. He was swung over a makeshift hammock that  _ really  _ did not look structurally sound, nursing a warm IPA. “Don’ worry though. He’ll be up soon enough.” 

You hoisted yourself to your feet using the wooden railing on the stairs, stretching your knees. Sweat prickled on the back of them from the heat. “I’m gonna go bring him a popsicle. It must be boiling down there.” 

“Don’ need to.” Bo replied, wiping his own sweat off his brow. 

You made a face. “Why?” 

A noise drifted through the open window on the side of the house by the kitchen; the heavy plot of footsteps coming up through the main hall. With a dull squeak the screen door opened, and out plodded a very sweaty-looking Vincent in a long and ratty shirt, a flannel jacket tied around his waist. You opened your mouth to say hi, but the large object he held with both hands distracted you. It was… a large metal bucket. Like one you might see in a school hallway that a janitor would plunge his mop into. 

Bo gave his twin an acknowledging nod as he trudged down the stairs by him, looking nonplussed. You watched, the remains of your popsicle rapidly dissolving on your tongue, as Vincent walked parallel to the porch and bent down to turn the valve on the garden hose. It groaned to life, a thick jet of water spilling onto the grassy garden plot nearby. He picked the hose up and deposited the head into the bucket, which immediately began to fill with tepid water. 

“What… is he doing?” You leaned to the side and quietly asked Lester, who was still hanging limply on the hammock. A mosquito buzzed by your ear and you slapped at it. 

Lester shrugged like it was obvious. “It gets hotter than’ hell down in his studio, what with the fires and stuff. There ain’t no good way to cool off. Don’t even got a fan down there. He’s had to find a few workarounds.” 

“What do you mean, workarounds…” You air quoted, then stopped mid-sentence, watching Vincent in complete surprise. Vincent hoisted up the full and heavy bucket of water, lifted it over his head, then promptly dumped it all over himself in a torrential downpour that soaked him head to toe. You audibly gasped in surprise. “Vincent, what the fuck!”

He put the bucket down by the hose and tilted his head, shaking a bit like a dog. “Hot downstairs.” He surmised. “Water evaporates over time. Keeps me cool.” Bo nodded thoughtfully at his brother’s answer, as if being soaking wet made complete sense to him. 

You were at a loss for words. Vincent took a step towards the front door, presumably to head back through the tunnels to the house of wax. You misinterpreted the move and reflexively took a step away from him; he was  _ soaked,  _ after all. 

The movement caught Vincent’s eye. He looked down at his dripping arms, then back up at you with a slow dawn of realization that filled your stomach with dread. You knew that look. Vincent had an  _ idea.  _

“No, Vincent, no.” You said, taking another step sideways across the stairs, away from him. You were suddenly keenly aware of how dry your clothes were. “Don’t dare. Don’t you even think about it.” 

Vincent lunged forward with a terrifying amount of speed. You shrieked and bolted off the porch, flip-flop covered feet taking off across the gravel of the driveway. A smile on your face, you made the mistake of looking over your shoulder… and saw Vincent bearing down on you, his sopping wet arms open wide for a hug. “Vincent, no!” You squealed again, running around the side of Lester’s pickup truck despite his protests to leave it alone, claiming it already had too much rust on it. Through the window you could see Vincent on the opposite side, hair stuck to his mask and looking like he was have the goddamn time of his life terrifying you. 

You feigned left and then ran backwards towards the hose on the side of the house. Vincent figured out your move too late; he was barreling towards you and barely had a chance to screech to a halt before you twisted the hose to full and pointed the nozzle at him like a firefighter. He let out a garbled noise as a jet of water shot him straight in the face, forcing him to throw his hands up to shield himself. You laughed, drunk with power. 

Lester was laughing too, relaxing in his hammock and pointing at his spluttering older brother. You locked eyes with him. He gulped. Within seconds you were moving the hose in his direction and he was scrambling to get out of the hammock. In doing so he hopelessly tangled himself in it. The arc of water sprayed right onto him, and he let out an indignant protest and flopped around like a beached fish. 

You had forgotten about your main objective, however. Vincent had come up behind out and wrapped two strong arms around your torso, bear-hugging you. Immediately you felt your shirt absorb chilly water, and squeaked in surprise. Behind you, Vincent let out a hoarse and vindictive laugh. 

“Hey, watch where you’re pointing that thing-” Bo said reproachfully, moving to leave the porch. But despite his warning, in your effort to free yourself from Vincent’s cage of a grip you began to wildly flail the hose around, hoping to get him right in the mask. The water blasted across Bo’s torso, and he froze mid-step. 

You and Vincent immediately stopped, staring with open mouths at the angry twin who looked down at his ruined outfit, then back up at you two. A wicked and mischievous smile curled onto his face. “Oh, you’re both in  _ big trouble  _ now. Lester, get the super soakers!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're saying that three emotionally stunted brothers DON'T own waterguns for summer waterfights, you are WRONG.


End file.
